


Your Fire Is My Command

by SilverShortyyy



Series: The Last Requiem [8]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anger, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 08:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18846937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverShortyyy/pseuds/SilverShortyyy
Summary: Post-S08E04Missandei was probably the only person who reminds Daenerys that she is both a queen and a girl. A mother and a child. A warrior with all her life and inheritance thrust upon her, and a young lady who deserves happiness even in darkness, a little bit of laughter even in war.Daenerys reminds herself that Missandei no longer reminds her of these things, insteadremindedher of it.Only Drogon's roars could be louder than Daenerys' roars, cries that echo through clouds and demands the skies to have listened. But the skies don't listen. If they do, they never respond.





	Your Fire Is My Command

Inhale.

_Falling._

Hold.

_Falling._

Hold.

_Falling._

Hold.

_Felled._

Exhale.

No, not exhale.

Daenerys feels like the air in her lungs are punched out of her, the whole world on her shoulders. On her back. On her throat.

The tears tell her they want to fall. Her knees tell her they want to sink into the ground. Her arms tell her they want to wrap themselves around her, around her body, around her chest.

Her eyes burn from control, from sheer disbelief.

Missandei's body lies at the foot of the gates of King's Landing, her head feet away. Her limbs lay in awkward positions, blood pooling at the spot where her head should have been.

_"Dracarys."_

Inhale.

Cersei thinks she has the right to look smug on her pedestal, a bastard crown on her head and blood cloth hugging inches upon inches of her body.

Exhale.

Daenerys turns away, shoulders square. There's a thundering in her ears, a roaring in her veins.

She climbs onto Drogon and looks at her army, not daring a look at the wall for fear of looking at the in between.

Grey Worm meets her gaze and she nods. And pulls at Drogon, and takes flight.

In the haze of his thunderous wings, she roars.

Roars at the sky, for having watched and done nothing. Roars at the sea, for not swallowing the land and drowning Cersei and her kraken lapdog. Roars at her heart, for loving and loving and loving too much, too much, so carelessly and recklessly as if she could afford giving pieces of her heart to anyone who was kind to her.

But Missandei was more than that. So much more.

Daenerys' roars choke on her sobs, and she closes her eyes against the wind as the tears carve down her cheeks.

Missandei had the chance to leave, to be free. In Daenerys' loneliness she did not realize she wanted Missandei to choose her, if not the warrior queen then the girl, the girl who was barely just of age when all this was thrust upon her. The girl, the babe, who had never even felt the love of her parents before the world crumbled around her, taken from her by blade and blood.

To Daenerys' luck (and fortune, probably; Daenerys is fortunate to have anything at all), Missandei had chosen her. Not freedom somewhere beyond the sands, but freedom dedicated to her.

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Breaker of Chains.

And this girl with hair like silver, eyes that bear both heaven and hell. This girl, whose smile had never come so genuine until just a few years ago, whose smile had never come so frequently until Missandei came into her life.

Daenerys roars into Drogon's scales, roars into the wind, roars into the heavens.

Missandei had followed her out of Astapor, followed her to Yunkai and into Meereen. Had kept her company and had let her feel the youth she felt was a priviledge she could not have. Had laughed with her, smiled with her, woven her hair into intricate braids day after day after day.

Out of Meereen and through the Summer Sea, out of Missandei's own country and into Daenerys' own.

Drogon flies higher, higher.

Daenerys never felt the the fall beneath her feet until she had to watch, almost felt Missandei falling, falling, falling...

_"Dracarys."_

Daenerys wishes she had cherished more the days Missandei would come to Daenerys' chambers to wake her, or simply to talk to her. Daenerys wishes she had spent more time outside the council chamber, wishes she could have done something, _anything_ , so that all that time would not have been wasted, would not have been in vain, would not have been useless attempts at nothing.

When Drogon prepares to dive beneath the clouds, Daenerys pulls at him to stay above.

He follows, and raises his head back to the horizon.

Daenerys looks past his head, and to the distant horizon, where the sunset approaches.

Missandei will never again be the first pleasant thing Daenerys sees in the morning. Her smile will never again grace Daenerys' sight. Her great hair, her beautiful face. Daenerys will never again be able to thank Missandei for standing beside her, never again know that in and out of war and politics, she had a friend.

Daenerys would never again be able to _speak_ to Missandei. No more exchanges in Valyrian. No more conversations in two tongues instead of one. No more laughter, no more youth.

No more of ' _valar morghulis_ ' because they are not men, and only men die, so _neither of them should have died in this war, both of them should have been able to make it out alive_.

Daenerys roars, and Drogon roars; Daenerys cries into Drogon's roars and Drogon's thunderous wings, into the skies that never seem to be listening. She cries, and she feels the part of her heart that was ripped out of her chest, viciously, mercilessly carved out of her by that bitch of a Lion on _her_ Throne.

No more Jorah. No more Rhaegar.

No more Missandei.

She wonders if she should have just stayed in Essos, made herself satisfied with what she had so she wouldn't have to lose so much.

But what would Missandei have followed her out of Astapor for?

' _Liberator,_ ' a small voice in Daenerys' mind says. ' _Breaker of Chains._ '

Daenerys lets her tears dry in the wind, lets the wind scratch at her cheeks.

Cersei would pay. They would all pay.

Daenerys will make sure that Cersei's dress of blood will go down in flames.


End file.
